Snobbery and Modernism

When crafting a book, deciding on one's audience is a pretty integral part of the process. For myself, I'm a populist - I want to write a book that's exciting, engaging, engrossing and, hopefully, evil. In the most deliciously soul-destroying sense. 

Reading, to me, has always been one of life's few theoretically universal pleasures; as they say, "there's a book out there for everyone". This phrase has stuck with me since I first heard it, and continues to influence a lot of my book-based decisions - particularly when raiding Waterstones in the expectation of an upcoming occasion requiring the exchange of badly-wrapped-but-thoughtfully-chosen presents.

Not every author thinks the same way, though. In fact, I ran into one just this week. Her name is Virginia Woolf... and I don't think we quite see eye to eye.

Mrs Woolf, you see, is a modernist. Modernism, as I have recently discovered, is a movement fundamentally based on curiosity, on wanting to test what can be done with the novel, pushing its form and function to the very limits, then shoving it in a blender, choosing a setting and slamming whatever dribbling ruination is left at the end onto a plate to see if any pretentious claims to radical and insightful status can be made before it goes cold.

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a huge fan of modernism. 

While I appreciate the curiosity and inventiveness at its heart, to me the system is also full of endemic snobbery - which is sad, because modernist novels can be marvellous things. It may come with a side of headache (brought on by feeling like an utter moron when you try and get past Chapter Three at midnight because your seminar leader swore it would be easier from there on), but modernism can raise some fascinating questions about the durability and failings of the human experience, and the language we use to express it.

But what's the point of such a thing if half the public readership find the prose about as penetrable as the underside of Fort Knox?

Most modernist novels don't set out to be difficult - sadly it's just a side-effect of its thematic adventurousness. Luckily, most of the time, the novel will prove really quite digestible once you've gotten used to its individual quirks. Who knows, you might even develop a taste for it.

This is not always the case, though. There are some authors out there who write books exclusively for the purpose of being ... well, exclusive. Even worse is when these books are lauded as the greatest and most definitive works of the 20th Century; true accounts of the human experience, providing marvellous insight into the human experience as it is felt by the everyman.

I'm looking at you, James Joyce's Ulysses. And you too, Mr William Faulkner. Don't think I won't be coming after you in whatever afterlife there may be, ready to wham you over the head with a copy of Absalom! Absalom!

Now, I'm not saying people can't write dense books of impenetrably complex prose if they want to - "there's a book out there for everyone", remember? - but I do have a serious bugbear with the literary world's habit of priviledging those books above others.

This is not a post about decrying complex language and themes - I'd be the dictionary definition of a hypocrite if I were doing that, as anyone who's read my first drafts will know - but rather a protest against forcing universality into something that clearly is not meant to be universal. 

People write books for different audiences. Different people like to read different things. Some books like to delve into the mysteries of humanity, others just want to entertain us with a few explosions and a well-placed death scene. They're entirely different creatures, competing in entirely different theoretical ecosystems, and both providing joy and nourishment to their respective variety of bookworm.

Let's not go lauding one as art while grinding the other into the dust, simply because the former contains a detailed symbolic structure to its chapter titles and requires you to read every sixth page upside down.

~ Charley R

What the Dickens! - Charley R Reviews "Great Expectations" by Charles Dickens

Great Expectations charts the progress of Pip from childhood through often painful experiences to adulthood, as he moves from the Kent marshes to busy, commercial London, encountering a variety of extraordinary characters ranging from Magwitch, the escaped convict, to Miss Havisham, locked up with her unhappy past and living with her ward, the arrogant, beautiful Estella. Pip must discover his true self, and his own set of values and priorities. Whether such values allow one to prosper in the complex world of early Victorian England is the major question posed by Great Expectations, one of Dickens's most fascinating, and disturbing, novels.

For much of my life, the words "Charles Dickens" were enough to make me keel over, frothing at the mouth, screaming "No, sir, no sir, I do not want some more!" It wasn't that I didn't respect his work, it was simply the fact that I found the prose indigestible. It may be a result of the fact that a lot of his work was designed to be serialised in newspapers, but I found ploughing through pages and pages of descrptive language, which was all set out in suck a blockish, grey, uniformed manner, was just too much for me.

I also have my suspicions that having to near memorise the thoroughly lacklustre short story The Signalman for GCSE didn't help much either.

And thus, when I picked up Great Expectations as part of the reading for my Extended Essay on idealised characters, I had braced myself up for the worst. I was expecting horrors - it's a big book, split into three parts, and the premise of a plucky young man going out into the big city to make a name for himself put me so much in mind of Oliver Twist (which I have read, detested, and buried somewhere in the Corner of Shame underneath my dressing gown and a large pile of old magazines) that I nearly ran for the door then and there.

You'll be pleased to know I was so horribly wrong that I almost find it laughable.

Unlike the other Dickensian works that I have perused in the past, Great Expectations is written in first person, in a very conversational, almost companionable, tone of voice. Thus, we become much closer to the narrator and central character, Philip Pirrip - or, as we know him, Pip. Pip himself is a lovely character; engaging, honest, and at times highly amusing. Long transgressions of descriptive prose are rare, and the few that remain were dusted with such a delightful tone of gentle mockery that I actually found them rather enjoyable.

Because of this sleeker, more personalised narrative, Dickens' famous social caricatures really shine. Not only are the characters' names enough to induce several giggles - how could you not laugh at a name like Pumblechook or Wopsle? - but Dickens' snarky social observances are perfect. From the high-born lady who is so obsessed with her own history, and so utterly useless because of her closeted upbringing, that it's a wonder she doesn't kill her own baby; the small-town "thespian" who single-handedly turns Hamlet into a one-man circus act, to the thoroughly detestable young snotbag known as Bently Drummle, all of them, as well as being sources of great amusement and ridicule, make wonderful walking examples of Dickens' life view and - at times - vents for his own political beliefs.

What's more, the plot itself is an active little beastie. Rather than simply having Pip roam between rowing regattas, the blacksmith's forge and the home of his very creepy guardian Mr Jaggers, Dickens throws in convicts, love triangles, attempted murder and a very messy incident involving a boat engine ... though not, actually, in that order. There are some very poignant moments too, and sometimes you really do not expect some of the plot twists - I know I, for one, nearly fell out of my chair when the source of Pip's "inheritance" came to light! The blend of action and Pip philosophising is not always equal, but for the most part there is plenty to keep the reader interested.

On the other hand, even Dickens can't get everything right. Victorian literature is infamous for its sentimentality, and Great Expectations is no exception. Yes, Charles, we know Joe is a lovely, honest, bashful blacksmith. Yes, we know he deserves God's blessing. Yes, you can stop eulogising now.

In places, the realistic aspect of the dialogue has been sacrificed for the sake of making the conversation a means to expressing a point of view. Reading through the somewhat overcomplicated and deliberately mispronounced, garbled speech of Joe and the other more rustic characters is also very difficult until one gets the hang of it - though, admittedly, it's never easy. Some of the plot elements - sure such as the motive and backstory of Magwitch, and the sudden change-of-heart and serendipitious circumstances involving Estella at the end of the tale - are never made fully credible either, which is a pity, because the setting itself is beautifully accurate (which is hardly surprising, given that Dickens lived there his entire life).

Overall, I would say Great Expectations is a wonderful book - and I would thoroughly recommend it to anyone who is looking to get a good introduction to Victorian literature. In fact, I'd recommend it to anyone looking for an engaging protagonist, a strong setting, a cast of colourful characters and a feeling of cultured smugness as you sit down reading it on the train to London. One word of advice: make sure your edition has a glossary. Working out what in the name of sanity some of the colloquial slang means is a little tricky - and more than a little misleading - without it!

You can find this book at any local bookstore, and most web-based booksellers.

~ Charley R